Maybe Angel was right. Oz sorts through his old clothes and he has to admit, if only to himself, that it might be time for some new stuff. Holes in all his pants, or getting there, fabric -- denim, twill, corduroy, it doesn't matter -- gone soft and transparent along the inseam, at the knees, in the ass.
He should feel indebted, Oz thinks, and *does*, except that after even barely a week here, he's starting to see that this place isn't a business, isn't a family, so much as it is a commune. There are clients, and there are also the visions they follow and solve for free, but there's also money that's just *there*. From Wes, from Angel, he doesn't know. Everyone gets fed, everyone does his or her part.
Oz read and reread Walden when he was 13, 14, 15, and it's like that, except they're all Thoreau. They're all Emerson, too, visiting for lunch from civilization, bailing Henry out of jail, encouraging and envying.
He finds Gunn in the kitchen, scraping old food out of crusty tupperware into the disposal and grimacing.
"Rather inhale sixty dusted vamps than smell *this* shit," he says, jerks on the hot water and slaps Oz on the shoulder. "How's it going?"
"'kay. You?"
Gunn waves the container at him, eyebrows halfway to the crown of his head. Oz nods. Man has a point; no need for extraneous words when you've got the visual right there.
"Need to ask you a favor," Oz says and hoists himself up onto the counter.
Gunn grins and drops the slop into the sink. "Hit me."
"Would you go shopping with me?" Oz drums the cabinet with his heels. "Kind of threadbare here --"
"Think Cordy's a better bet for that kind of thing."
"Yeah, but --" Oz peels an orange, splits it. Blinks when it squirts right in his eye. "Like the way *you* dress. Just need some normal clothes. Not Cordy-type --"
"I have no type," Cordy says, coming into the kitchen, arms crossed. "What's going on?"
"Need some new duds," Oz says. "Hey."
Cordy looks him up and down, back and forth, sideways, even. Takes her time letting the smile spread over her face. "Could have told you that in seventh grade."
"You did." Oz offers orange slices from the palm of his hand but only Gunn takes a couple. "Finally listened."
She nods, tapping her index finger against her chin. Oz is starting to get nervous; all the back-to-school shopping expeditions with his Nana are creeping back over him, leaving him anxious and tense. "I'd like to see you in something more fitted."
Oz slides off the counter. "Just some regular stuff. Like, pants. Pair of Vans. Nothing --"
Cordy links her arm through his, and this isn't going to be pretty. He should have made sure she was out before ever uttering the word 'shopping'. "Has to be regular stuff," she says. "Neither of us has the moolah for what I'd *really* get you."
Gunn's still standing by the sink, grinning at what Oz is sure is his lost and half-terrified expression.
"Dude," Oz says. "Come? Please?"
"Cordy. Let the man go," Gunn says. "We'll get him to Foot Locker and a couple places and be done with it."
"I don't think so," Cordy says. "He's not a ten year old on the short bus." She squeezes Oz's elbow. "Don't worry. Couple sales, we'll get you all set up."
*
One thing for Oz to think about California when he was away; whole other thing to be here. He thought about sun and clouds, the angles of light sharp and bright as plate-glass, the weight of the heat in the air like flannel, napped and soft.
But *being* here, tucked into the backseat of Wes's Mom-mobile, Gunn driving and Cordy chattering, he might as well have been remembering Iceland or a northern atoll off Japan. Somewhere he's never been, has seen only in black and white snapshots and faded watercolors.
LA is brighter than bright, all the sunlight trapped beneath visible and invisible layers of smog, constantly ricocheting off glass and metal, bouncing back to the asphalt. Oz blinks constantly against the light. Focuses on the thick wrinkle of skin at the base of Gunn's skull, the bones' curves and hollows, and tries to shut out the rest of the world.
He likes Gunn. Obviously: He's the kind of guy Oz can't imagine anyone disliking. Frank, friendly, straight in the spine and big in the heart. He barely knows the man, but it's like the first time he met Devon in sixth grade. Something in the wide smile and clear, bright eyes just made Oz relax a little and go with the instinct that he was good people.
"So our man Angel swims in both ends of the pool," Gunn says. His eyes flicker up to the rearview mirror and Oz can see the wrinkles of his smile around their edges. "Gotta say I'm a little surprised."
"You are not," Cordy says.
"Am so."
Oz slumps a little and plays with the loose threads on his inseam. Cordy slaps Gunn's arm and hushes him.
Gunn shrugs and Oz sees his eyes in the mirror again. "What about you? Big dark guys always been your type?"
"Gunn, Shut. Up." Cordy twists around and shakes her head.
"Oh, yeah," Oz says. "Headed for you next. Got you in my sights and everything."
Gunn snorts. "Like to see you try."
"Bet you would," Oz says and grins back. Gunn already smells familiar, like candlewax and cocoa butter, and it's been a long time, if you don't count Angel, that Oz has found someone so easy to talk to. Gunn's not impressed by much and he's just *cool*.
"Oz had a *girlfriend*," Cordy says. "Love of his life. Little redhead, just like him."
Oz swallows, and it's memory and confusion all mixed up. "You met her," he tells Gunn's eyes. "Willow."
"Nice girl," Gunn says and it's like he's reassuring Oz and stopping that particular direction for the conversation all at once. "So I guess it's safe to say you've got a range of types."
Oz blinks and calls up Angel's face -- profile, sleeping -- and smiles a little. Rubs the heat from his cheeks and looks at Gunn. "Guess so, yeah."
Cordy reaches back and touches Oz's knee. She looks -- *intent*. As if she's performing. Which isn't to say she's faking it, just that she's giving the gesture, and what she's about to say, her all. She's been giving him this look nearly constantly in the last few days and if he hadn't believed Angel before about Cordy having changed, just one of those looks would have convinced him.
"It's okay," she says and pats him gently. Smiles as a lock of hair slips across her forehead. "Really great to have you back."
Oz shifts a little. Cordy's hand is soft, cupped over his kneecap, and suddenly very, very heavy. He slips his fingers through hers and squeezes. There are all these conversations running around the hotel, between the different people, like undercurrents. Or the threads of light thrown up against the walls of a pool, trembling, intersecting, transitory. So he knows Cordy's not flustered a bit by Angel shacking up with a guy -- *Hello? Actress. I know who runs this town, and they're not sleeping with me* -- but by other, way more important things. Curses and passions, demons and emotions.
He just doesn't have anything to say about them. If he did, he'd tell her; he never had a problem with Cordy. She's always been herself, hell or high water, and that's rare enough in his experience for him *not* to respect.
So he squeezes her hand and glances out the window, squinting, against the impossibly bright light of LA.
*
One pair of navy-blue Vans that made Cordy roll her eyes and remind him that Kurt's still dead, couple pairs of corduroy Levi's that made her wish she hadn't wasted the Cobain crack on the shoes, and several plain t-shirts later, Oz is more than ready to go home. Home, back to the hotel, whatever.
Gunn's hungry, though, and since he's willing to treat, Oz has no objections. He wants to rest, because trudging around stores and deflecting some of Cordy's more bizarre clothing suggestions is far more tiring than any trek through the forest.
"So what can you *do*?" Gunn asks around a mouthful of beef burrito.
"Play guitar and slack?" Oz says.
Gunn raises a threatening fist. "Funny guy. In terms of the job, I mean. Can you like go all wolf and track the baddies or what?"
Oz points a tortilla chip at him. "Fight. Stake. Handle a crossbow pretty well, or I used to." He eats the chip and brushes salt off his hands. "Back-up research, I guess. Read pretty fast."
Gunn sits back, brows rising as he smiles widely. "Impressive. Hellmouth kid, huh?"
Oz rearranges the chips on his plate and glances at Cordy. "Yeah, basically."
"How come none of that rubbed off on you, Cordy? Huh?"
Gunn elbows her and she swats him away. "Please. I had much better things to do."
"Like chase Dev for two weeks after he broke up with you?" Oz asks quietly.
Cordy elbows him and Oz ducks too late. "I'll give you a pass on that, wolfboy. Just one, since right now you're all Nell of the forest. But watch it. *I* broke up with MacLeish and you know that better than I do."
Oz grins and steals a sip of Gunn's orange soda. He wishes Angel was here; something about the group of them, together, talking like crossbows and wolfing out are normal parts of daily life -- because they *are* -- twists in his gut for a second. Moments like these, with the shift and stutter in his gut and the sudden cold prickle on his neck, Angel would move in closer. Drop a palm on his nape, say something quiet and vague, and the anxiety would pass.
It's not just anxiety that's making him miss Angel.
It's also enjoyment, warm sun through the trees of the restaurant patio, Cordy blustering about having to fend off and manage all the *boys* of the hotel, good food in his belly. It'd be -- nice. Right. If Angel was here.
But: Sun. Daylight. Basically an impossible wish.
They're gathering up smeared plates and empty glasses when Oz remembers the mistletoe. "Hey, guys, hold up. Got something for you."
Gunn and Cordy take the sprigs, look at each other, then back at him.
"Not *for* you," Oz adds. "Or, yeah. Anyway. In case I wolf out, it's some protection."
Gunn's face tightens. "That gonna happen, Oz?"
"Could," Oz says. "Probably won't."
"Can't be too careful." Gunn pats the stake in his waistband.
"Exactly."
Gunn nods at that and Oz realizes all over again that talking isn't necessarily torture.
"So how is the wolf thing?" Cordy asks. Her voice is bright and high and Oz smiles. "How's that going for you?"
Oz rubs one shoulder and squints. "Not going. Pretty much staying."
"Just --" she says as they weave their across the patio and back to the sidewalk. "Last I heard you had it all under control and then you *didn't* and those army guys --"
"Marines."
"You were in the *Marines*?" Gunn asks, opening the back of Wes's SUV and piling in the bags. He's using his impressed voice again and Oz hates to disappoint him.
"Got caught by Marines. Secret demon hunting squad."
Gunn whistles long and low and Oz smiles as he slides into the backseat. He's doing all right so far on the half-forgotten rituals of macho pointmaking.
"Excuse me? Making conversation here." Cordy twists sideways in the front seat. "So: Under control or not? Are we going to have to cage you up again three nights a month? And what's with the Christmas decorations?"
"Pretty much under control," Oz says. "Mistletoe's just in case. Otherwise, I've got herbs, meditation, a little blissing out --"
"That's where Angel comes in?" Gunn asks.
Oz grins. "You know it. Want some details?"
"Nooooooo." Gunn starts the denial and Cordy joins in.
"Vampires don't need to breathe," Oz says and crosses his arms. "Just ponder that, okay?"
"Ew, *Oz*. Stop right there," Cordy says. "Like you better as silent mysterioso guy."
Oz runs his hand through his hair and tastes orange soda and sunlight again. "Still him."
"What, still him, but now improved with gay blowjobs?"
"Yeah." He pulls one leg under him and looks out the window. They're almost back at the hotel, and if his chest and cheeks are starting to feel warm and a little jangly, he figures that's okay. It's going to take a long time to work out where the space is between bite and avoid, let alone who he is there, and he needs some downtime.
Unless Cordy gets a vision smackdown, it's been a quiet day and will probably be a quiet night. He's had his fill of social interaction, probably for the month, but all the same, it wasn't too bad. He thinks he probably did all right. Now, though, he just wants to find a good book, not demon-related, and hang out with Angel. Prolong the quiet, let it deepen, and just *be*.